“She’s learning the launch pretty fast,” he told himself. “It’s made them mad, I guess.”
“If you don’t give up, it will be the worse for you, Marcos!” came from the gruff man in the skiff, as he waved his light about.
“Marcos, eh?” thought Nick. “This is the right man I have here, after all. I thought I recognized him. Well, he isn’t going on board that yacht again, if I know myself—and I think I do.”
He felt a thrill of satisfaction as he saw how the launch was cutting through the water, faster than at first.
“She’s getting the hang of it,” he muttered. “Hope she won’t run us down. I can’t do much dodging with about a hundred and seventy pounds of Joyalita prince on my back. Whew! He gets heavier every second.”
In another minute he saw there was no doubt about the outcome of the race. The launch was gaining rapidly.
The man in the bow of the skiff recognized this fact, and he was swearing in Spanish with such gusto that it might be wondered where he had learned so many oaths.
“He’ll have to swear in another tongue if he keeps on,” laughed Nick. “The Spanish language won’t be rich enough for him much longer. Why doesn’t he give us a few of those in English? Or in Chinese? That’s a language with good profane possibilities.”
If it may seem strange that Nick Carter could laugh under such circumstances, let it be said that it was the way of the detective to enjoy himself when things were coming his way, no matter how great might be his peril.
It was his disposition to see the humorous side even of a very serious situation that accounted for much of his success.